


Friend, or Phantom?

by LadyStrangeandUnusual (Dream_Wreaver)



Category: Beetlejuice - All Media Types, Beetlejuice - Perfect/Brown & King
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Jealousy, Musicalbabes, POTO Aesthetics, Phantom of the Opera inspired, beetlebabes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:01:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24014857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dream_Wreaver/pseuds/LadyStrangeandUnusual
Summary: Lydia has her first major success, but is it hers alone?
Relationships: Beetlejuice/Lydia Deetz
Comments: 7
Kudos: 87





	Friend, or Phantom?

**Author's Note:**

> So this one is dedicated to a friend of mine who is also doing a phantom inspired musicalbabes fic. Check out Last Demon to Sing if you have the chance. Anyways Kat, hope you like it

The Gala opening had been a massive success. Lydia felt like she was on top of the world. Not even old enough to drink yet and she had managed to get her work into one of the most prestigious art galleries in New York City. It was a massive triumph, especially since her artistic genre of choice was photography. Paintings and sketches tended to hold the elite art snob crowd’s attention far longer and easier than stilled images captured on a camera. More imagination it was said, easier to connect with they said. All Lydia really cared about was not what the art crowd typically enjoyed for artistic faire, but that they were enjoying and buying her works. Some of them were even selling for huge money.

The combination of black and white composition, the strange backgrounds and settings, the ability to act as both photographer and model and capture herself in such a way that some skeptics were convinced she’d had help. Some uncredited artist not getting their rightful due. But by and large the longer the champagne seemed to flow the less anyone really cared. They were there to make apparent their good taste and awareness of current trends. Holding a delicate flute in her hands Lydia aimlessly wandered through the crowds, making idle conversation, networking where she could. They didn't care that she was underaged, not so long as she was talented and was making art they wanted to consume. Rules were for the poor anyways. And tonight, tonight she was part of their world rather than on the margins. All she could hear buzzing in her ears was the raucous drone of multiple conversations and the praise of the people she met. In their upper crust way,

“Brava, Brava!” They chorused.

But through the noise and drone and laughter, she heard another voice, floating above them, _“Congratulations Babes,”_

Lydia let out a soft gasp as she heard the raspy voice whisper directly in her ear. Eyes frantically searched through the crowd, trying to spot him, trying to see if he had taken the effort to appear. Or was he just teasing her? He liked to do that. No, he wouldn't take such a big risk. Not here. Would he?

Lydia was so caught up in her thoughts she didn't notice Charles and Delia coming over to her, trying to catch her attention with repeated inquiries of her name,

“Lydia, Lydia,”

_“Lydia…”_ He hissed, once again causing her to frantically search. But this time she noticed her guests.

“Where in the world have you been hiding this talent?” Charles asked her, “I mean, I always knew you were interested in your photography but I thought it was just more of a hobby,” unspoken, I thought you were going to give it up because there was no way you'd be able to make a _real_ career out of it, “But just look at you! Look at this!”

“Oh Charles,” Delia laughed as she put a hand on his chest, “She's always had talent, but she's really come into her own hasn't she?” Sidling up to Lydia she whispered into her ear, “Really though honey,” she said softly, “What's your secret? Did the Maitlands help?”

The Maitlands couldn't leave their house, so there was no way that they'd been able to help. But Lydia couldn't say if she had had any otherworldly help. To someone more spiritually inclined like her parents now were, it might have been obvious. Some of the angles were near impossible to achieve when limited by the human body and gravity. But a ghost? It was an easy thing. Lydia said nothing in response. It was the simpler course of action.

But then she noticed, her parents weren't alone. At least, not anymore. Had this third party been here the whole time? He wasn't a bad looking sort, but then, no one at this party was. Clean cut, well fitted, and a few years at most older than her; handsome by any definition. But also seemingly shy, if he was using her parents to garner an introduction. But the moment he saw her he embraced her like an old friend,

“Lydia Deetz as I live and breathe!”

“Pardon?” Lydia raised a brow, quickly disentangling herself from him and looking to Charles and Delia for help or even just a reminder of who this person _was_ only to find they'd conveniently vanished. Lovely, it was a setup.

“Oh surely you can't have forgotten!” The young man exclaimed, looking put out and hurt in the most over dramatic sense. Which was somehow not as charming as he seemed to think it was. Lydia barely refrained from rolling her eyes, whoever he was, he surely hadn’t been memorable enough if he had to explain who he was, “I’m Jackson Prescott, of the Long Island Prescotts? We used to play together at the Brewster parties!”

Ah yes, the Brewster parties, where she’d been forced to attend and as per the rules of spoiled princess Claire, Lydia had been the social outcast. She’d remembered a clingy little boy, finding her weird and always trying to convince her to get back at Claire. But Lydia had been too good for it at the time, not so much anymore, but se la vie. But she didn’t remember much else about him. Clearly though, the clingy aspect hadn’t changed if here he was using a night of her triumph to get closer to her. Lydia wasn’t stupid, she knew she wasn’t stepford wife material. What he wanted was probably to find out where her expensive hotel room was and spend a good chunk of the late night evening tossing her sheets about. Cute. But Lydia could feign interest and memory with the best of them, long enough to get away at any rate.

“Of course, Jackson,” Lydia made a show of putting her hand to her head like she too agreed it was ridiculous she’d forgotten him, “How rude of me, things haven’t been the same since we moved out to Connecticut, it feels like a whole other life out there.”

“Well, surely you’ll be moving back now though right,” Jackson said as he took her hand, placing a kiss upon it like she’d be flattered by the performative gallantry, “I mean, I’m sure Connecticut is… quaint and all but New York is where you’ll really want to be if you’re considering making a viable career out of this, for now anyways.”

And there it was. The condescension that a woman could be a successful photographer without some sort of patronage or support. He thought she was using this as a way to worm her way into upper society again. And he was going to use her alleged desire for social climbing to get something out of her in return for the promise of “help”. It was too easy to spot, frankly. And Lydia was insulted that he’d think the girl who’d never fit in without a care about it would suddenly want to now. But she’d play nice,

“Well, we’ll see. I’ve really fallen in love with Winter River,” Lydia said as she forcefully extricated her hand from his grasp, “The house that I live in has so much history, and so does the town. There are so many interesting things to find there, if one knows how to look,” she shrugged, tugging the fancy but otherwise useless wrap tighter about her shoulders. Her dress was sleeveless, and she wasn’t about to provide incentive for this pompous asshole to stare at her chest, “I think for now I’ll simply stay where I am and make the trip up to the city for gala openings and art shows and the like.”

“Oh,” he seemed shocked, or perhaps a little frustrated. Probably because she was playing obtuse to the offer he was putting down for her to pick up. Perhaps he thought she was playing hard to get, or maybe he thought she really was too dumb to read between the lines. But to his small credit he recalibrated quickly, “Well, I suppose I must come down for a visit if this little town has you so enchanted with it. Perhaps you could give me a tour, show me the sights,”

“Perhaps,” Lydia allowed, knowing full well he wouldn’t be making the trip unless she put out for him tonight, “I’m afraid you might find it a tad, rural, as it were. At least, compared to the hustle and bustle of New York City,”

“I’ve been to plenty of rural places,” Jackson made to assure her, “I love camping,”

“How nice,” Lydia remarked, draining the last of her flute and setting it aside on the tray of a passing server, “Well, perhaps we should talk about it at length some time. But if you’ll excuse me,” she made a show of stretching and yawning, “I’m afraid I’m quite worn out for the evening. I think I’ll return to my hotel room, if you don’t mind-”

“Oh please, let me escort you there!” Jackson eagerly jumped in, “I’d hate to let a lady wander the streets at this time of night,”

“Oh it’s not far,” Lydia kindly fobbed him off, “I’ll be fine, honest. But thank you for the offer.”

BJ BJ BJ

She bid him goodnight and wandered off, mixing through the crowds and finding a safe place to hide as she slipped out the back entrance. She didn’t want him following her, and his persistence had indicated he would if she weren’t careful. The hotel they were staying at was in fact right across the street, and Lydia hurriedly ducked and weaved through the always standstill traffic and entered back in through the door. She hurried to the back elevators and rose to her floor, sliding the keycard in and sighing in relief as she took in the empty but well made room. With the door closed behind her she leaned against it, slipping out of her heels and moaning in soft relief as the tension they’d been under was now gone. She wanted to do the same with the dress, but was far more concerned with letting her hair out of the updo it had been yanked into for the event. Countless bobby pins were scattered onto the countertop of the bathroom, and Lydia grabbed her black silk robe and tied it about her waist. She left and looked at the large vanity mirror the suite afforded her, sighing and giving a wan smile as she looked at her reflection,

“I thought I’d never get away from him,” she spoke aloud, trying for humor in the empty room. When silence was her reply, however, she frowned. As though despite being the only person in the room that should not have been the case, “Oh come on,” she huffed, “Don’t tell me you were actually jealous of him, were you? I mean I would never- not with some pompous jerk like that, regardless of childhood affiliation,”

She looked around, hoping to find him sitting in one of those chairs with a disapproving stare she could relax and reassure out of him. But he was nowhere, she was alone. Lydia felt a chill make the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. But it wasn’t the chill of the temperature dropping, it was the chill of being alone when she’d gotten used to not being. Having an eye opened for the dead meant she was rarely alone. It had grown to be a sort of comfort, which made the silence of isolation all the more crushing. She hadn’t made him mad had she? They’d discussed this, her success meant there was a necessity to promote her work, which meant sharing her with the rest of the world. Only a single side of her though, a side that wasn’t even real. It was a mask, a performance, a way to sell the photos she’d taken, garner success and acclaim, just what they wanted. But he was jealous, even though she’d yet to ever remove the ring on her left hand. Lydia felt fear, she didn’t want to be alone again, not like how she’d been after Dead Mom had left her. Not like the Netherworld, never again.

“Please, say something,” she whispered, begging to hear that voice in her head, even if it was all nothing more than a figment of her imagination. But there was no answer to her prayer.

A little distraught, Lydia sighed and collapsed onto the bed, hiding her face in her arms and determined not to cry. Perhaps she’d had too much champagne, between the dinner toast and the free flowing trays at the gala she’d definitely had more than one. Her emotions were all over the place, perhaps she should just rest. The moment the thought entered her head she suddenly felt sleepy and lethargic. And as her breathing evened out, the electric lights she’d left on cut out, plunging the room into darkness. Lydia was in that half dizzy state, somewhere between waking and dreaming when she heard it, the sounds of scratching, scraping. She opened her eyes and saw an eerie green light emanating from somewhere in the room. Following the trail she saw the mirror, reflecting the darkness of the room, and yet filling it with light. The glass melted away, letting in mist and fog and a figure shadowed in darkness stood in the frame.

_“Lydia,”_ he breathed, holding out a hand. The beckoning was clear, the instruction unspoken. _Come to me_.

Lydia’s eyes were wide, and she felt herself slipping from the bed, feet moving of their own accord. She felt lighter than air, hands outstretched as she followed him. His own was waiting for her, cold, deathly pale, with chipped black claws and blood red fingertips. The hands of a killer, but so soft and gentle, as she slipped her own into it. Was she dreaming, was she awake, had she left her body behind; all of them questions she thought and forgot as he stepped back, leading her into the darkness with only himself as a guide. They walked into an endless ebony abyss, nothing above or below her. His punishment had been such, removal from everything, only existing in between. He had first come in dreams, his power severely limited by his expansive space. But like all matters, this couldn’t keep him down for long. The world in which they traveled now was his domain, and he was its lord and master. At last they came upon a river, wide as a lake, and a small skiff bobbed in the milky white waters. The River Styx, or so he had claimed. River of souls, of spirits lost to Hell and the rest of the underworld. Such was his charge. He loaded Lydia into the boat and pushed them off, slowly vaulting them across the seemingly benign waters. Lydia gazed into the liquid, seeing the souls of so many departed make up its composition. It was hypnotic, she wanted to reach out and touch them as they floated by like an endless school of fish. But she felt the soft bump of the skiff hitting shore, and then there were hands at her sides, lifting her up and cradling her against a cold dead chest as her husband carried her to his abode.

It wasn’t much to look at, but it had a bed, and a mirror through which to view her when he was banned from the world of the living. Their time was borrowed, stolen moments of sleep and dreaming unless she called to him. One day, she would. When she felt the world ready to know of his return. Her parents were content to think him gone forever, and he was content to steal her away, Kore returning home and leaving winter in her wake. Beetlejuice set her down on her feet and circled around her like a vulture. Time had changed her, but not him. He was still in that dingy striped suit, eschewing the finery of his made up position to be his honest, gruesome self. Lydia preferred him this way, unabashedly disgusting and gross. It was just her proclivity after all this time.

The hand that bore her wedding ring reached out for him, “Were you mad?” she asked him softly, not wanting to but also needing to know his answer.

“Not at you,” he took the hand and placed a kiss on it, erasing the action her would be suitor had done earlier, “I could rip that little pisslicker apart for daring to touch you.”

“I would let you,” Lydia assured him, “I didn’t want him to touch me. I don’t want anyone but you to touch me,”

“Welcome home babes,” he told her, yanking her in and crushing her lips against his own. Lydia moaned into his mouth as she felt his dark possession take hold.

Beetlejuice was many things, a demon, a pervert, a monster in stripes. But he was hers, and she was his. The possessive, greedy beast that lived within his skin would never allow her to be taken from him. Not again, not after he’d put his mark on her. He had never understood the concept of respecting the wedding ring, not until Lydia was wearing his own. And anyone who dared look at her beyond an incredible talent that they could never hope to equal more than earned his wrath and ire. Though he could watch her, he could not protect her, not unless she called for him. And he knew that in her heart of hearts she wouldn’t want anyone to suffer because of her. Not again. So she educated, evaded, did everything she could to escape. And then she would throw herself into his arms, begging him to make sure no one would dare touch her again. He always did, but it stopped no one. At least such flagrant ignorance was cause to repeat the cycle. Over and over again.

His silence after Lydia’s departure from the gala had been for her sake. He had been so angry at the way the brat had dared to handle her, to try and use their alleged shared past to try and worm his way under her skirts, he’d been almost palpable in the living world. As it was, the mirror he’d been looking at her through had shattered. Calming thoughts of all the ways he’d wanted to torture the soul had been able to still his fingers. His Lydia was a good girl, she would never betray him again. But he had been so filled with rage, the kind he hadn’t felt since his brief moment of life, he knew that if he spoke to her, he would break her. And she didn’t deserve to be broken, she’d wanted nothing to do with the little insect. But Beetlejuice would have gladly devoured him whole. As it was though, he’d just have to do it to Lydia instead. She tasted sweet beneath him, the taste of fine liquor and good food. Of luxury, of everything that had been stripped of him with his placement in this limbo. One day, Lydia would set him free. They both knew this, but tonight he would truly work on convincing her. He knew she could no longer stand being alone, but he would someday make it so that she wasn’t even able to live without him.

He clutched her to him as his tongue descended into her mouth, a desperate man holding her like a lifeline. She was. His lifeline, in more ways than one. Lydia’s hands clutched back just as frantically, sliding over his shoulders, tangling in his hair. Moans and groans and pleading sounds escaping her even as she had to break apart to breathe. His hands went for the belt of her robe, intent of making sure there were no barriers between them. She reached for his tie, his buttons, everything she could get her hands on. And suddenly there were too many clothes in the way and not enough time or patience to divest them all one by one. He didn’t care how it was accomplished, but either through magic or pure brute force all her clothing was gone as he tossed her onto the bed. Her hands were still moving all over him, his clothes had not so easily been removed, but he trailed kisses down her body, suckling at her clit as filthy, grimy fingers plunged themselves within her depths.

Lydia arched her back and moaned, lowly but loudly as she felt his intrusion. He was impatient, if his treatment of her clothes was any indication. Perhaps there was some anger still residing in him. Anger that needed to be satiated. Which she would gladly accept from him. She cupped the side of his face and made him look at her,

“I know you’re upset,” she told him, “I want to feel it, every dark, angry, possessive thought you’re having, I want it all. I want you to make sure I’m yours and that everyone knows it.”

“I don’t wanna break you,” Beetlejuice said, “You’re not like some stiff broad, you’re a breather, you’re so fragile,”

“Break me Beej,” Lydia replied, “I want you to.”

“I… I can’t,” Beetlejuice told her, “You’re my angel,”

“And you’re my demon,” Lydia reminded him, “Now, let’s make sin,”

He sighed, and for a moment was still. When he looked up at her again his golden eyes flashed with dark desire. He really had been mad. His kiss was harsh, punishing, bruising even. Lydia felt a slight cut form on her lips because of the mixture of pressure and teeth. Beetlejuice lapped at it, but seemed to further lose his mind to dark craving because of it. Nails raked down her sides, only enough to raise goosebumps and tiny red lines in their wake, even though it would have been too easy to draw blood there too. Lydia moaned softly in response to his ministrations. Pain was pleasure, pleasure was pain. Every bite, every scratch, it spoke of just how deeply he craved her, how much he needed her to know that she was real, and she was his. It was not done in anger or malice, not to her. It was simply a twisted, screwy way of showing that he cared. He was a monster, death, a creature of darkness. And the kind of existence he had endured, one of emptiness, isolation, loneliness, bereft of light or live or love. All the things she had promised him, all the things she would deliver upon.

Kisses and bites littered her skin. He had to touch, had to taste, had to reaffirm that she was here. He was so angry, so, so angry. Angry that someone had tried to take her from him. It didn’t matter that it hadn’t worked, he was angered by the attempt. Lydia had returned to him, she had told him that she wasn’t going anywhere, but that wasn’t good enough. He wanted to steal her off to the world of night where no one could ever take her away from him again. Where there was no day, no light, no hope of escape or reprieve. Where time meant nothing and he could claim her over and over again. And as she moaned and writhed under him, he got the sense that she wouldn’t mind it in the slightest. Clever fingers dipped back into her core, stretching deep and spreading wide. Stretching her out as he prepared her for his assault. Normally he’d suckle and lap and twist his fingers until she’d come at least once before he thoroughly fucked her. But he was too angry, too concerned with satiating his need and claiming her as his own. She wanted him to break her, he’d be happy to oblige. When he felt he’d spent enough time preparing her, he grabbed hold of his cock, lined it up with her entrance, and pushed forward, shoving himself in all the way to the hilt. Lydia gasped as he bottomed out inside her. So big and thick, and chilled, but so hot at the same time. It hurt, it hurt so good. Her fingers clutched at his shoulders as he forced her legs wide. And then she hooked her legs around his waist, trying to keep him in as deep as he could go. He slowly drew back and thrust forward, a wet noise and hiss of air from between their bodies resounding in the quiet. The air was still, hot, humid, and broken by quiet panting. And so it began, in, out, over and over. The sounds of sex filled the air; low moans and the silde of bodies that rubbed against one another. Harder, faster, the snap of hips that caused flesh to slap. Lydia’s breathy sighs as she gripped at him. His low grunts of exertion as he worked through his anger and worked her over. The only thought in his head not of reaching his own satisfaction, but Lydia. Lydia, Lydia, Lydia. His reason for being, his dark and morose purpose. His cursed bride. His one and only. 

Lydia knew that he was working through his rage. But she couldn’t deny that it felt so good to have him lose control with her. He always treated her as though she were something precious, something fragile. In a sense, she was, in consequence to being a breather. She could bruise, she could bleed, and she could break. He always had to hold back to keep from hurting her too bad, his powers could only be used to harm, not to heal. And it was so easy for him to lose himself in darkness and almost hurt her, but be stilled by her touch. But Lydia didn’t want him to stop, didn’t want him to gentle his touch out of concern for her. Not when she could accept the full force of his affections, in every jealous and dark facet of it. She groaned, she moaned, she clutched at him and urged him to go faster and faster, harder and harder. She felt the sweet sting as his hips slammed against hers. She felt that painful peak building within her as he kept plowing into her, over and over again. Pleasure rose higher and higher, her body wound tighter and tighter and then with one final push, she snapped.

The feeling of her clenching around him was his own undoing. He slumped into her as his own release descended upon him like a lover scorned. Vengeful and sadistic and yet so, so good. He shuddered and rolled off to the side, absentmindedly pulling a lit cigarette out of the air and sucking on it, watching the smoke as it blew past his lips, furling and spiraling into the air before disappearing into the darkness. Lydia curled up against him, seeking warmth where there was none to be found. She slung an arm across his chest, a hand resting against his cheek. Beetlejuice’s free arm snuck around her, wanting to keep her here with him forever, but knowing she needed to return. A dark shade of light, but one that couldn’t thrive in complete and utter darkness. He hugged her tighter to him, before rising with her in his arms. He carried her back to the portal and laid her back in the bed. She was sleepy, but stirred as he set her down, reachin for him,

“Please don’t go,” she begged him.

“I have to,” he reminded her, “Unless…”

Bleary eyes glimmered in the darkness of the room, illuminated by the electric lights of the city, the silence broken by its nighttime bustle. Lydia sighed, “Unless,” she agreed. She knew how to get him to stay, but would it be worth the risk?

She had trusted him with freedom before, and he had broken it utterly. To release him was to risk that pain and betrayal all over again. But to be without him again was paining her. The darkness their only ally, the reprieve of dreams that would bring them together. It was painful, to be so close and yet so separated, removed because of what had happened. Lydia no longer cared that he had tricked her, trapped her, she couldn’t let him leave her every night, trapped in a world that she as a living girl could not enter. Lydia clung to him, whispering something unintelligible into his skin.

“What’s that?” he asked. Lydia pulled back and looked up at him.

With a deep breath in she repeated, “Beetlejuice,” she said, “Beetlejuice… Beetlejuice.”

BJ BJ BJ

The next morning Lydia saw Jackson looking for her in the dining area. Persistent little creep, wasn’t he? But Lydia knew to greet him first was to encourage him, not that doing anything to discourage his attentions would stop him. Not yet at least. So she sat, and ordered, and when he joined her at her table she only barely refrained from rolling her eyes.

“Sorry to interrupt your breakfast,” Jackson said, “But I heard you had an extra day here in the city and I was wondering if you might want tot go on a little memory hunt with me,”

“A memory hunt?” Lydia asked, “Sounds exciting, but I’m afraid I already have plans.”

“Plans, well, by all means I could help with any errand you may ha-”

“That’s awfully sweet,” Lydia cut him off, “But these aren’t exactly errands, and I’m afraid that I just can’t in good conscience accept your… gallantry under false pretenses,”

“What false pretenses?”

“Well…” before she could answer, arms slid around her from behind. Cold and smelling of death. Not that Jackson would notice, he’d be too busy processing the proprietary claim that had been staked on his mark. And Lydia only felt like rubbing salt into the wound by snuggling into her husband’s embrace, “I’m not sure what my parents might have told you Jackson but,” she smiled, somewhat cruelly as a kiss was placed to her cheek, “I’m already married.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment and let me know what you thought. Thank you so much for reading, until next time Netherlings!


End file.
